For Teachers

The Clock Winder

by Thomas Hardy, 1917

It is dark as a cave,Or a vault in the naveWhen the iron doorIs closed, and the floorOf the church re-laidWith trowel and spade.But the parish-clerkCares not for the darkAs he winds in the towerAt a regular hourThe rheumatic clockWhose dilatory knockYou can hear when prayingAt the day's decaying,Or at any lone whileFrom a pew in the aisle.Up, up from the ground,Around and aroundIn the turret stairHe clambers, to whereThe wheelwork is,With its tick, click, whizz,Reposefully measuringEach day to its endThat mortal men spendIn sorrowing and pleasuring.Nightly thus does he climbTo the trackway of Time.Him I followed one nightTo this place without light,And, ere I spoke, heardHim say, word by word,At the end of his winding,The darkness unminding:"So I wipe out one more,My Dear, of the soreSad days that still be,Like a drying Dead Sea,Between you and me!"Who she was no man knew:He had long borne him blindTo all womankind,-And was ever one whoKept his past out of view.